Greatest: The Story of Centuries
by TheGirlOfThorns
Summary: Magnus's life told in writing through his eyes to a certain blue-eyed Shadowhunter. His struggle with his own identity, emotions, and humanity. Will include fun , light, happy stories as well as heavy angst. Hints of Malec. Much Magnus. Wonderful Magnus. :)
1. Chapter 1

**Hey y'all! Remember how at the end of CoHF, Magnus wrote his life story for Alec? Well, this is it. Yes, I have read the Bane chronicles, and yes, they will be alluded to later, as will TID. I love Magnus so, so much, and I really tried to capture his emotions n this story. The first couple chapters will be really angsty, but I think that after that we will get to see more of the adventurous Magnus that we all know, love, and can laugh with. So lemme know what you think with an R&R and feel free to give suggestions! :)**

This is not a story for the weak of heart; this is a story that spans centuries. This is a story of love, a story of heartbreak, a story of joy, a story of pain, a story of what it means to be human in all the ways that matter. This is a story that I have written specifically for you, because you are not the weak of heart; I have chose you for a reason. I hope that after reading this, you will still choose me because if you don't, I don't think I could stand it. You are the one I love with all my heart. You are better than anything that is on any of these pages that I have put in your hand. Alexander, I love you.

I was born in the 1600's. I honestly don't remember the exact year; when forever extends in front of you and there is no forseeable end, such a thing as age does not really matter. My birthday is another one of those trivial things: I never had anyone to tell me exactly what day I was born, and so I simply choose to celebrate it on whatever day I feel like celebrating. In truth, the exact day shouldn't matter when there are so many days in an immortal life.

When I was small, no one took care of me. From the second I was old enough to understand that I was different, the instant that I opened my eyes to my stepfather to reveal the inhuman slit cat eye pupils that marked me as not an ordinary mundane, my father locked me away in the shed. He allowed me to go out to go to school, but when I got home he would lock me in again. On good days, he would leave a hot meal on the ground that I slept on and I would be able to eat it and spend the rest of the day sitting alone. I was hungry, yes, but the good days were exactly that: good days. Bad days were much, much worse. On bad days, the man who called himself my father would follow me into the shed that he had conditioned me to walk straight home to and pick me up. I don't want to recount all the details, but he would beat me often. I remember one particularly bad day he beat me to the point that I could no longer move, and I was entirely sure that day that I was going to die. He picked my small body up and tossed me at the wall, knocking me entirely unconscious. When I woke up days later, still alone in the shed, I thought that I had died. I thought that I had died and so I stopped caring. I stopped caring about the good days, stopped caring about the bad days. Because the good and the bad did not matter: it was like the words that the man hissed at me as he hit me. I was a monster. I deserved to die. I was not human, and empathy was reserved for human beings. I was not a human being, because of my eyes, so I did not matter.

School was better. The other children did not let me play with them, for their parents had warned them to stay away from me, but I liked to sit in the corner and watch them play. Besides, at school I could often find food and so I would not be hungry while I was there. I watched them play. I sat in the corner. They played such silly games that I could not remember the name of, but I did remember their names. Tom. Nick. Jay.

One good day, I asked my father what my name was. He told me that creatures like me did not need names. I believed him. He was all I knew.

I never saw my mother, so on the fateful day that my father came in to the shed and told me to come with him because he had something to show me, I had no idea what to expect. I followed him, because obeying was the only way to stop myself from definite pain. He took me to the barn that I was typically not permitted in and asked me to push the door open with a surprising scary calm. His eyes were red and puffy and his face was forced into an even expression, but I didn't question him. Instead, I obeyed. And inside, I saw the image that still appears in my nightmares today: my mother dangling by the neck from the wood of the ceiling, as unmoving as I had been that day my father threw me at the wall.

Dead.

My father never lost his calm, though I now was able to piece together that he had been crying. He told me that he had something else to show me and that I had to come with him, but I couldn't move. A sob welled in my throat and threatened to come, but I would not let it. I could not move. I was frozen. My father began to insist more and more that I go with him. But I was frozen. So he grabbed my hair and pulled, hurting me but getting me to come with him.

I was stupid not to realize where he was taking me, but I was too wrapped up in the haunting images in my mind of my mother hanging there to really even give it a second thought. I saw the water with a strange detachment from it. I saw my reflection as I was pushed toward it, but I did not really feel anything. When my head went under the surface of the lake though, things were different.

I was hurt.

I was terrified.

I was angry.

I knew now.

I was wrong all along.

Despite what my father had told me time and time again, I was human.

And despite my bruises, despite my shattered spirit, and despite my lack of identity,

I wanted to live.

I wanted to live.

_I WANTED TO LIVE._

I barely felt the shock run through my body, but as soon as it was out I knew. As I poked my face out of the water, gasping for air, I looked straight ahead into the face of my dead motionless stepfather, lying on the ground.

I had killed him.

I had killed him because I wanted to live.

I was hurt.

I was angry.

I was terrified.

I was running.

**Oh, right. To those of you who were following my story "Green", I have terrible, terrible writer's block on it. I am so sorry I have not updated in a while. I'm trying :/**


	2. Chapter 2

I ran and ran all the way through the farmland that surrounded my house. I ran and ran all the way through the trees, the fields, the meadow. I passed my old school and bid it farewell; I knew that I could never, never go back there again. I had killed him. I had murdered my father. Even if it was an accident, I could never see anyone that I had ever known before again because I knew that they would kill me. The man who tried to kill me was respected in my community, but me? I was a cursed devil child.

Eventually, once dark enveloped around me, I had no choice but to stop running. I had nowhere to go, either, though, so I simply sat against a tree in the middle of the field that I happened to be running through. I caught my breath. My heart was slamming against my chest, and my stomach was rumbling, but I was alive. I was breathing. I could feel the ground solidly underneath myself and that was all that mattered at that moment.

I caught my breath for about ten minutes until I heard a rustling noise behind the tree that I had planted in front of. I knew that I couldn't blend in with the shadows, so I just sat there. Friend or foe, my fate is sealed. I would live on or I would die alone. Black or white.

I'm glad I lived on. I'm glad I met you.

The boy that came out of the shadows was beautiful. He looked at me not with the raw disgust that others had looked at me with over the course of my life, but rather with a sheer fascination and curiosity. It was the kindest look I had ever been given from behind blue eyes, the shade of the sky on a stormy day. His pitch black hair shimmered in the moonlight. It is a combination that I have seen in so few people that I can list on both hands. The boy in front of me. Click, camera shutter comes down on a memory. Will and Cecily Herondale. Click. You. Always and only you. You are the most beautiful.

He told me his name was Akira. He did not turn away from me when he saw my eyes. Instead, he knealt down on the ground next to me and held me as I cried, my entire body convulsing in his arms. He asked me what happened, and I told him through choked gasps and a lot of coughing. Running for ten straight hours took more out of me than I had thought it did. It was the first time anyone had shown me any kindness in my entire life. It was the first time that I felt worthy of actually being something, like I actually was capable of being loved one day. Akira told me about himself as he cooked me some meat that he was carrying with him as well as some fruits that he was able to pick. He was twenty. He was engaged to be married next month to a girl from his town. He was a well-respected person where he came from. I only half listened. I was mostly grateful for the meal. It was quite literally the best thing I had ever tasted.

Akira took me back with him to his town, where I slept on the couch of his cabin for the next two weeks. Eventually, though, a strange man showed up at the door, cloaked in robes with his eyes and mouth stitched shut showed up at the door and said that he was here to collect the warlock boy. I didn't know what that meant, so I resumed resting on the couch and waiting for Akira to come and talk to me. I liked when he talked to me. It made me feel like maybe someone cared.

Akira walked up to me with the masked man still at the door, his blue eyes shining with tears as he looked down at me. He told me it was time for us to part ways and that we had to say goodbye now. I remember being so confused. I didn't want to leave, but the man scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the cloaked figure in the doorway. He leaned over to me and whispered one last phrase before closing the door on me and the cloaked figure: remember, you're special. Be the greatest thing you can be. As long as you have a soul and have free will, you can be anything, do anything, choose anything. Be the greatest.

Before I knew it, I could hear myself screaming and crying out for Akira, but he was far away in the distance. And, looking at his figure from this far away, I could have sworn that I saw something that I never had seen before. On Akira's back, sprouting from his shoulder blades, were a pair of giant bat wings that shimmered as the sun streamed onto him.

**Do you guys like Akira? Let me know! I might be able to bring him back. Just as a note, Akira means "light" in Japanese. That's where I got the idea for the name.**


End file.
